Crossing Lines
by Raven's Wing
Summary: All roads lead back to Jack. Even when they shouldn't. [oneshot... for now. Strange pairing.]


**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.

**A/N**: This might grow into something more than a one-shot, but for now I will keep it just as that because I really want to finish _Loving Brooklyn_ before I take on anything else. Though, I do think this piece stands well on its own; it is an idea worth pursuing.

**Warning**: PG-13 for sexuality, language, and angst.

**Title**: Crossing Lines

I'd heard David, Les, and Jack talk about him. He sounded nice. It was mainly David talking, but that was expected. As dearly as I love my brother - the nickname the newsies had given him, The Walking Mouth, was very appropriate. David was fascinating with this reporter – like he'd never known they'd existed before him. Little captured my overly cynical brother. This piqued my curiosity towards the man but it never was pursued past the passing thought. At least that's all it was at first.

I cared for Jack. I still do. The power of expectation and attention had swept me away with his ideals of Santa Fe and being a cowboy. He was adventurous. He was exciting. He was gripping and thrilling and everything that my life in a tenement in the Upper East Side was not. I would sit and listen to him talk about his dreams as he fingered the ends of my hair aimlessly. His hands had always been stained with newsprint and grime, but I'd never stopped him. There was something painfully endearing about the vagabond boy who so cleared wanted to be a man. It was that lost characteristic that drew me to him to quickly. The shy smile, the awkward vulnerability he showed only when we were alone, and those tortured hazel eyes – I wanted to fix him. So I listened.

It was during those conversations, on the rooftop or fire escape, where he had told me the truth about his parents. He hadn't told me the stories that he had told all of his boys. He told me the real stories about how his parents would scream at each other, and throw things. During the first blushes of our love he had confessed how he would hide under the bed whenever they drank so they wouldn't hit him. He hadn't cried when he told me, but I had. I'd also sworn not to tell anyone. How could I after I looked into those tormented hazel eyes?

Most people assume that our first kiss was the one at the distribution gates after they had announced victory. Most people were wrong. Our first kiss was much more of an awkward touching of lips. He'd seemed afraid of hurting me, or maybe of losing control. After that there had been several others. Behind the curtains at Medda's, in an alleyway where'd he'd pulled me out of the sight of my brothers, in the dark of the distribution office basement, his kisses were often spontaneous and left me feeling dizzy. Be it from the actual kiss or the exhilaration from the secretive nature I didn't care. We had both been hungry for each other.

It was clear he knew what he was doing by the way he placed his hand and moved his lips. The first time he'd touched my mouth with his tongue – my heart had skipped a beat. He'd tasted like stale cigarettes and peppermint. It was a combination as odd as the boy to which it belonged. I learned a lot in those moments we had alone. I learned much more than just the mechanics of kissing and passion. I learned a lot about him, life, and how something like butterflies pounding in your stomach didn't mean you loved the person (even if it did confuse things).

It was those lessons which lead me to where I am today.

It was those times which made it so difficult to get to where I am today.

He'd told me about Denton, as well. All of the excitement of the strike and the help that he was getting from a professional journalist were parts of the stories he told me. Jack was the best at telling stories, weaving words for his own benefit, but they were never boring. Between David's more practical analysis of the faceless man and Jack's more elaborate tales I was able to piece together a decent profile. He seemed well grounded, but passionate. I was glad for his allegiance with my brother's cause. God knows those poor kids needed it.

My parents had never approved of Jack. Well, they approved of him as David's friend – but not as a suitable match for me. Mama never hesitated to let me know in her own soft way that I should look elsewhere. Papa had been blunter than Mama saying that I was pretty enough to marry higher than a boy who would either turn out a common thief or factory worker. If anything could be said about Mayer Jacobs it would be that he had high expectations for his children. That was another subconscious factor in the ordeal. Even though I was faithful to Jack – it was easy to let my mind wander into areas which I shouldn't have.

Areas like how captivating his steel blue eyes were.

We'd never met until the night we published that paper in the basement of the distribution office; working side by side in the musty, dusty basement all through the wee morning hours. In the dim lamp light was when I first noticed his eyes. His hair had been close to Jack's color. It was a little lighter and cleaner, but it hung down in his eyes that night the same that Jack's did. Dangling over those warm blue eyes speckled with silver flecks he'd been so kind. I'd been drawn towards him but dismissed it quickly.

He was at least ten years my senior.

When he left to be a war correspondent I assumed it was the last I'd see of him. I had been saddened, but rationalized that I had no reason for the ache in my breast. Though a bond had grown through our conjoined efforts toward the newsies' paper - the feeling wasn't justified. I ignored it and continued with my times with Jack; sitting on the roof in the early morning, the front steps in the afternoon, or the fire escape at night. He'd whispered in my ear about running away with him.

"We'se could leave foah Santa Fe tanight, and no one would needs ta know." His face had been close and I'd felt his breath tickle my cheek and ear.

I shut my eyes as his lips grazed my cheek. He'd wanted to kiss me, but I'd ducked my face. Santa Fe was something I thought I had wanted, like his kiss, but I wasn't so sure anymore. The seeds of doubt my parents had planted were rooted deep within my mind. Was Jack the best I could have? He hadn't asked what was wrong, and if he had I wouldn't have had an answer. At that point I wouldn't have been able to tell him because I didn't know.

Between the inner-doubt and the input from various sides I watched my relationship with the cowboy crumble. It wasn't a rapid process, but a slow decay until neither one of us understood what we wanted from each other. The fact that I was getting letters from Bryan every week probably didn't help.

The first letter had been a complete surprise. He was off somewhere (he couldn't tell me where) and asked after David, Jack, the newsies, and my family. There was a return address given, but he let me know that even he wouldn't get those letters for a few months he still wanted me to send them. His letters were very journalistic. Telling me stories of his trip – though most likely censored for my sake – and about the people he befriended. It was nothing particularly exciting. Most of his letters was like reading a newspaper article, but I was flattered by the attention. I responded to every one of those letters without Jack knowing about their existence. We corresponded an average of one letter a week for six months. In the fifth month Jack and I finally had it out.

"Yous don' wanna go ta Santa Fe?" He had asked. The morning sun shone on his dirty hair; trenches were dug into the strands from his long, familiarly stained fingers. I took a deep shuddering breath before I answered.

"No." It was soft but firm and he looked up at me from where he sat. We were close on the ledge.

Our hands rested next to each others', but didn't touch. I'd expected more pain in those tortured eyes, but they were hauntingly empty. I saw his Adams apple bob as he swallowed heavily, and looked away from me. His hand fished into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a match. He lit the smoke mechanically and I caught a whiff of it on the morning breeze. It smelled the same way he tasted. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence since it was expected. Looking back – a lot of the time I had spent with Jack was in silence. Trying to draw it out would have been far more awkward. My feet kicked out and fell back against the wall where we sat in a childish gesture. I was only a few inches shorter than he was, but my feet didn't touch the ground like his did.

"Why not?" Jack finally asked. He was starring at the brick side of another building. His sensual lips wrapped around the butt of his cigarette. The lean line of his jaw was relaxed but I was as aware of his tension as I was of the smoke that swirled around us.

"It is your dream, Jack, not mine." I answered quietly. The answer was rehearsed and repeated. My eyes followed his gaze to a spot on the wall several yards away from us. "I'm sorry." The words were robotic and I wasn't sure why I said them other than it seemed like the right thing to do.

"Has he kissed you yet?" Jack had asked and a lump came into my throat.

Now he looked at me. Those eyes not hollow, but swirling with something that looked very close to anger. My breath stuck in my throat. I expected him to lash out at me; to attack me with the words he wielded on the street like swords – but he didn't. He sat there and waited. Never did he give me a chance to look the other way. It hadn't surprised me that he had known there was someone else. Jack was surprisingly intuitive. This was why I didn't bother denying that my heart was with someone other than him.

"He's never touched me." If you didn't count the accidental brushing of hands or encouraging pat on the back – this answer was completely honest.

"Is it one of my boys?" The questions came steadily now. Only a few beats between each one and his eyes never leaving mine. I found it harder to look at him with each question.

"No." My answer was quick and firm. A flash of suspicion danced over his handsome face, but it dissipated as quickly as it came. He knew I wouldn't lie to him.

"Gawd, it isn't someone from a diffahrent borough, is it?" His insecurity and competitive male side surfaced.

"No." I shook my head and looked down at my hand on the cool stone of where we sat. The nails were chipped, and there were scars and burn marks across the skin. If you looked at my palm you'd see the calluses. Today they were stained with ink from writing a letter the night before, and I felt a pang of guilt. Mine weren't the hands of a lady. They were working hands. Jack and I both had working hands.

"Is it a fact'ry boy?" Jack prodded further. I heard him grind his foot on the rooftop; extinguishing the end of his cigarette.

"No, Jack." I bit my lip as his hand slipped over mine. That other ink stained hand had reached over and raised my chin to look at him.

"Who, Sarah?" The question was simple, but the answer was hard. I looked down at that hand covering mine. Scared knuckles, dirty broken nails, and newsprint a permanent tattoo on his flesh all so familiar. Familiar – but not what I wanted. It was several deep breaths before I could answer.

"Bryan." I met his gaze before I spoke. The name registered blankly at first, but then realization struck him like lightning strikes a metal pole.

"Denton." he breathed a statement – not a question. "Bryan Denton." He repeated the full name, and his hand slipped off of mine. There was a sharp pang of loss that came with his withdraws, but his eyes remained locked with mine. The confusion that had been there now boiled into a darker rage. There was no pretense of relaxation. He was mad. "He's old enough ta be youah faddah!" Jack accused wildly. His voice was as tense as his shoulder and jaw. Sparks flew behind those hazel eyes.

"That's not true, Jack." I defended. The sting of his words was as if he'd slapped me across the face. "He's only thirteen years my senior and –"

"Only." Jack snorted, not letting me finish. "I'se sold papes with headlines like dat!" His voice wasn't loud – but it spoke volumes. His stung pride was now retaliating full force. I was too shocked to respond. How could this mouth I just kissed come back with words like this? "The bastahd ain't ev en in tha country!" He scoffed – raking his fingers through his hair.

"You don't know that." I was surprised to hear my voice shaking. Was it with fear or anger, I wasn't sure.

"He's a damn wah corospondahnt." Jack was standing and pacing now. My feet still dangled aimlessly. Both of my hands gripped the edge of the ledge where I sat. The knuckles of my hands turned white. "He's not even around!" he paused midstep and whipped around to face me. "Does Davey know about dis? Do youah pahents? Did evahyone know but me?" He pointed a finger and took a few menacing steps towards me. Though his tone was level and reasonable – the expression in those eyes left me breathless with fear. He looked like he was barely holding onto his control. I didn't want to know what would happen if he lost it, but I did want to hold him and make his hurt leave. The hurt that I had caused.

"Not everyone knew," I assured. He was closer now, barely two feet from where I sat. "David just found out today, too." I watched him carefully. Again he was weighing the truth of my words, but I'd never lied to him on any other occasion. He had to know I wouldn't start then.

"An' youah pahents?" he repeated. His voice was still tight, but his hand had dropped from its accusing point. The anger that had gripped him seemed to be bleeding out of him into the air. His temper had burned like a great flame, but it had burned itself out before any real damage had been done.

"They've known for – awhile." I couldn't remember when they'd first asked me about the letters I'd been receiving from Bryan.

"Sarah," he didn't sound angry this time – only tired. "How long is _awhile_?" He wanted to know how long I'd known we weren't going to make it; how long I'd known I wouldn't go with him to Santa Fe. Did I even know if I didn't want to go?

"Near a month," I guessed and then gasped as Jack suddenly sunk to his knees. It was like his legs were no longer able to support him as he curled his knees to his chest. He looked like one of the Delancey's had punched him in the stomach.

"You'se known a month?" he stared blankly in front of him – one strong arm wrapped about the knees in front of him. A large, familiar hand rubbed over his face mechanically – as if he'd just woken up from a nap. Instinctively I pushed myself off of my seat and went over to where he'd crumpled. Sitting beside him I touched his arm gently with my fingertips. The muscle jerked as if he wanted to pull back but he remained where he'd been.

"I'm sorry." I whispered – my voice breaking with sorrow for him.

I hadn't been fair to this boy, but I had wanted to postpone this as long as I could. Bryan's last letter had let me know that he was returned in a month's time and that he wanted to court me further. That detail I left out for Jack's sake as well as mine. My parents had been thrilled at the idea while I had been more reserved. The attraction I had to Bryan was marginal – but surely that would increase on his return. Wouldn't it? The question was force from my mind as Jack turned and looked at me with those hazel orbs I'd dreamed of for so long.

A forced grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at me. I'd know the kiss was coming. I'd seen that look in his eyes before; the wanton desire which (no doubt) was reflected in my own. There was no surprise that I wanted his caress. The physical attraction between up has always been powerful. I didn't do anything to stop it – I couldn't have even if I wanted to. When our lips touched I tasted his anger and sorrow along with the acrid flavor of smoke. It was long, lingering, and slightly desperate. A tint of salt's bitterness tainted the kiss, and I realized I was crying. They came from the expression I'd seen in those hazel eyes just before our lips had met. The pain that I knew I'd caused him for a reason I wasn't even sure was fully justified. Slowly - he drew back. That familiar hand brushed the last of my tears off my face.

He didn't cry, though. Jack Kelly never cried – even if he'd wanted to.

We hadn't talked after that. We'd just sat there in silence - my head on his shoulder. It was comfortable. We'd made our peace with each other in our own way, and though I knew Jack wasn't pleased with the arrangement; he would allow me to go my path. There had been too much distance in our relationship in the last month for him not to notice the change. Jack was smart. Acceptance was easier since he'd had all the warning signals. Then he left. Without a word – he stood and went to the fire escape.

"I promise Is'll stay friends wit'choo." He vowed from his place on the ladder. Then with one last shy smile - he left me alone on the roof before disappearing.

David had been upset with me when he'd heard the news. Even with his demigod status Bryan Denton – he was best friends with Jack. Les had been upset with me when he'd heard the news. He wanted me to marry Jack so that he could go to Santa Fe with us. Jack was as much of a hero to Les as he was a friend to David. Mama and Papa, however, were thrilled. An accomplished, well paid, groomed gentleman was paying attentions to their daughter.

I would be a liar if I said I wasn't excited as well.

Bryan came back like he said he would. He courted me like he said he would. He proposed to me a year ago like everyone told me he would. Now I am going to marry him today like I said I would. And Jack stayed my friend like he said he would – though there was always tension.

I get butterflies when I'm around Bryan – but they aren't the same as Jack's. These butterflies are more nervous than excited. Jack's comment about him being old enough to be my father haunted me. I'd noticed the color of Bryan's eyes, but it wasn't until I really looked did I notice the wrinkles around them. His hair was thick and primarily clean, but his hairline was farther back than Jack's. Upon his return I'd compared every aspect of Bryan to Jack; his mannerisms, his walk, his talk, his smiles, his laughs, his frowns, and his eyes. Overall: he was pleasant – but he wasn't Jack.

As time had progressed I wasn't sure of what I wanted anymore. I knew what my parents had wanted and what was sensible – but had I ever once known what I had wanted? I'd voiced a small bit of concern to my mother, but she'd dismissed it as pre-wedding jitters. Though, if all this was simply pre-wedding jitters: why had I had them ever since I started writing letters to Bryan? Was it because I wanted him so much – or because I didn't want him at all?

Did I even want to know what I wanted?

This all flashed through my head as I woke on the morning of my wedding.

I woke up in a bed; in a bed all my own but not alone.

The morning of my wedding I woke up in my bed with two arms wrapped tightly around me.

My back pressed firmly against someone's chest; their bare skin touching my bare skin.

If this was only pre-wedding jitters: then why am I in bed with Jack Kelly?

And how am I going to explain the bite mark on my neck?

**A/N**: This went a totally different way then I expected, but I like it. As tacky as this is – please review. I'm really interested in seeing what you all think of this idea.


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